Shame
by Penna da Favola
Summary: Started as pillowtalk fluff. Gets darker. And a bit rude. Sherlock/John. Reviews are very welcome!
1. Chapter 1

They both fell back against the pillows, panting heavily. Sherlock eased into his customary position with his head resting on the back of his outstretched arms and closed his eyes with a satisfied smile. His snow-white body looked like an exquisitely carved marble statue in the moonlight that poured through the bedroom window and caressed his naked form.

John rolled over and drew the covers up under his chin as he hunched into the foetal position, trying to ignore the feelings in the pit of his stomach.

"Have you had many other male lovers John?" Sherlock said after a few seconds, not opening his eyes.

John cringed slightly. It still sounded so... wrong. 'Male lovers'. This wasn't John Watson The Soldier. John Watson The Soldier didn't have 'Male lovers'. He was someone else now. He didn't know that person. Not anymore. Sometimes he missed him. Sometimes he thought John Watson The Solider would be ashamed of what he'd become.

"Never." he murmured softly.

He didn't have a problem with it- his sister had had plenty of same sex relationships. He wasn't homophobic. Was he? Of course he wasn't. Then why did he have this feeling, gnawing away it his insides, tearing away at him like barbed wire? He felt ashamed.

"I thought as much," came the calm reply, "not that it makes a sizeable difference; I still enjoyed it."

He was an object. The sex object of a narcissistic sociopath. A sociopath who got bored.

John Watson The Sex Object.

He felt sick.

Upon not getting a response, Sherlock opened one eye and regarded the huddled form of his best friend. Sherlock recognised from his body language that he was seeking comfort and reassurance. The detective leaned over to plant a kiss on the doctor's shoulder blade, on the raised spider's web of the bullet wound that had left such an ugly scar. He stopped just before his lips came into contact with John's skin, pulled his head back and just looked at it. The healed skin shone pearlescent in the blue moonlight. Sherlock thought this ugly mess was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He traced it with his little finger gently, no longer seeking to comfort, just to touch. Beautiful.

John tried to ignore the animals biting away at his innards when he'd felt Sherlock's cold finger on his back. Tried to ignore the warm rush of pleasure that flooded through every fibre of his being. He wanted to ignore it. Ignore the voices in his head telling him it was dirty and wrong.

He angled his head and watched Sherlock's look of concentration as he continued to trace shapes on the doctor's back. Silver eyes met Cobalt blue. John stretched his neck slightly and Sherlock made up the distance and they shared a fleeting kiss, which grew deeper as John turned over into Sherlock's welcoming arms. The long pale fingers were running through his hair and cupping his face.

You're mine.

As John relaxed into the embrace, he realised that he wasn't John Watson The Sex Object and he wasn't John Watson The Soldier.

He was John Watson. And he was loved.


	2. Chapter 2

"Never do that again, Sherlock!" John snapped, waving his arms about angrily as he threw his coat and bag on the floor. Sherlock stalked past him and flopped down of the sofa sulkily.

"Really, John, I think you're overreacting."

John's eyes widened as he looked at the detective, "Overreacting? Really? You groped me in public."

Sherlock rolled his silver cat eyes and toyed with his loose, dark curls, "John it wasn't _groping, _as you so vulgarly put it. I simply placed my hand on your-"

"Stop! Just stop right there- placing your hand... where you placed it... that was enough. Too much."

"But John, intimacy is a crucial part of becoming closer with one's lover."

At this John's mouth narrowed until his lips nearly disappeared. He ran a tired hand through his hair and exhaled heavily. The detective noticed a crease between the doctor's eyebrows. He frowns too much.

"Sherlock. We're not lovers. We're flatmates. Friends."

"...who have sex."

"N-No." Drained, John slumped next to Sherlock on the sofa and stared straight ahead, "I'm not gay. I know I'm not. I can't be. It doesn't-"

"John," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, "There really is no need to define oneself, it's me you're talking to, remember?"

"I know."

"So stop being so dramatic and pass me the remote, 'Countdown' is starting."

John dumbly handed his friend the television remote and they both sat watching 'Countdown'. About two minutes after the first ad break Sherlock gently placed his hand on John's thigh and just rested it there, not taking his eyes away from the screen. After another few minutes John tentatively leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder. They stayed sat like that in silence until the credits rolled, at which point Sherlock placed a fleeting kiss on John's forehead before heading to the kitchen.

John lingered for only a few seconds before leaving the flat; he needed some air.

Sherlock watched him go, and patiently waited for him to return, which he would. John always came back.


	3. Chapter 3

Her thighs were slim. And tanned. And clad in stockings. Balanced on killer stilettos. And yet she still somehow looked elegant. Maybe it was the crimson lips or perfectly coiffed auburn hair. Even as she was standing on the desk over the reclined figure of Doctor Watson in little more than a few wisps of black lace, Jennifer Elder simply oozed class.

As she bent her legs to sit astride John, she caught a flicker of hunger in his eyes. Animalistic. She liked it.

John felt a tightening in his trousers but tried to concentrate on Jennifer's beautiful face; she looked like she wanted to eat him alive. He wanted her to.

Jennifer reached her hand back without removing her gaze from the doctor's. She ran her perfectly manicured fingers from his kneecap to his thigh. John caught his breath. She grinned, and kept going, s l o w l y unbuttoning his jeans. She leaned in further, pressing her breasts against his chest.

John felt her nipples harden against his skin. He flexed his hands, a minute movement he normally did unconsciously before seeing a patient. Then he stroked Jennifer's spine with just one course, square finger, before expertly unclasping her bra. He heard her give a small gasp and felt her shiver with anticipation.

Her hand started to pump up and down in his trousers as she caressed his lower lip with her tongue, pulling it out between her teeth. John took the opportunity to return the favour and gently slid a hand into her knickers, feeling a warm glow in his chest as she gasped again.

John's eyes rolled back and he gripped the edge of the desk with his free hand as he groaned in pleasure. After a few seconds of recovery, he used that hand to push Jennifer onto the desk and take control, still keeping one hand in her underwear. Jennifer writhed underneath him and cried out in bliss, her eyebrows furrowed and her mouth in a neat little 'o'. As her breath quickened and her muscles started to tense, John lowered his head between her thighs to use his tongue. Jennifer's back arched and John felt nails scraping across his shoulders as she reached orgasm and moaned in ecstasy.

Afterwards, John pressed his back against the cold wood of the desk and felt Jennifer's curvaceous form beside him. She was amazing. He watched her sit up to light a cigarette, a curtain of silky copper hair falling in front of her face, hiding her eyes that were the colour of melted chocolate.

That was when John realised with a sinking, raw feeling in the pit of his stomach that his experiment hadn't worked.

Because he wanted dark, messy hair. Silver eyes. Still. While Sherlock existed, nothing could ever compare.

Doctor Watson made his excuses and left.


End file.
